


Those Who Run Together

by HardNoctLife



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Eventual Romance, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Getting Together, M/M, Training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:00:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21874807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HardNoctLife/pseuds/HardNoctLife
Summary: The Kingsglaive and Crownsguard’s annual ‘friendly competition,’ is just around the corner. Known as the Crowns-Glaive Duels, or simply as ‘The Duels,’ the three-day test of speed, strength, and skill also conveniently coincides with the yearly physical testing exams, standards enforced on all in service of the Crown.Gladio has always performed well in the strength and skill departments, but speed hasn’t been his friend. His superior officer suggests he become running buddies with a fellow member of the Guard, and it turns out to be the last person Gladio would have expected.
Relationships: Gladiolus Amicitia/Prompto Argentum
Comments: 66
Kudos: 193





	1. Training Partners

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Morning Jog](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/543655) by @artofalassa. 



> This fic was inspired by a piece of fanart by @artofalassa (Twitter/Tumblr). Please check out and support her work!
> 
> Lass, thank you for all the beautiful art you create for the FFXV fandom!

Gladiolus Amicitia sits across from his commanding officer in the dark, dingy office located within the Crownsguard administrative offices, not to be confused with the Kingsglaive command one block west from the Citadel. In his two years since joining the Guard (straight out of high school, as was to be expected of Clarus Amicitia’s son), Gladio has learned everything he has never wanted to know about the difference between the two royal military groups—including the fact that they secretly hate each other.

Gladio watches anxiously as the man before him sifts through the results of his first attempt at his physical testing, trying to read the captain’s neutral expression and failing. The captain, Laurus Ursa, is a young, muscled man who mostly keeps to himself, but is known for his quick temper when it comes to anything regarding the Glaive. _Bunch of pretty boys who think they’re better than us just because they can put on a little light show_ , Gladio once overheard him say after a particularly hard day of joint training with His Majesty’s ‘elite’ forces.

Now, the Kingsglaive and Crownsguard’s annual ‘friendly competition,’ is just around the corner. Known as the Crowns-Glaive Duels, or simply as ‘The Duels,’ no one knows which king instituted the demonstration of physical ability (open to the public for a fee), but the bragging rights at stake for the winning party are enough to end friendships for any Guard or Glaive who might be on speaking terms. The three-day test of speed, strength, and skill also conveniently coincides with the yearly physical testing exams, standards enforced on all in service of the Crown.

Gladio has always performed well in the strength and skill departments, but speed hasn’t been his friend. Now, as Captain Ursa meets his gaze and frowns, Gladio gets a sinking feeling in his gut.

“A little slow,” the man grunts. “You gotta bring up your mile time, Amicitia. Even if you’re Clarus’s son, it won’t cut it for your PT. Besides, you were randomly selected for the relay this year in the Duels.”

Gladio grimaces—he was afraid of that.

“What do you suggest, captain?” he asks, already dreading the answer.

“A new Guard who just joined has been clocking in at an impressive pace. I suggest you reach out to him and recruit him as a training partner. You’ve got a little over a month to bring up your times,” the man explains.

“Yes, sir,” Gladio agrees readily, then asks: “What’s the name of the new guy?”

“You may already know him; I believe he is a friend of Prince Noctis’s,” Captain Ursa muses. “His name is Prompto Argentum.”

* * *

It is stupid o’clock in the morning, and Gladio is _not_ happy to be awake. He’s standing in the middle of Insomnia’s Center City Park, waiting on a park bench for his all-too-enthusiastic running partner, fighting back a yawn as he checks his text messages.

**_[Prompto 06:33 AM]:_ ** _Be right there! Sorry to make you wait!_

Gladio is secretly thankful for the few extra minutes to steel his mind for the upcoming torture—excuse him, _training_ —session. Everyone assumes that those in the Guard and Glaive must be morning people, but what they don’t realize it’s only because they are forced to be. Getting up at 0600 is supposed to foster ‘discipline’ and ‘hard-work,’ blah blah blah, and other bullshit that Gladio doesn’t believe. If anyone asks for his opinion (which they won’t), he wouldn’t get up until well after the sun if he didn’t have to. He would work just as hard after an extra hour or two of sleep, maybe harder, but oh well.

Turns out, Gladio _did_ know Prompto, although only as a loose acquaintance. The short, freckle-faced blond became good friends with Noctis the year that Gladio graduated from high school, and they had met on several occasions, but usually only in a group setting. From the conversations he had with Noctis and their limited interactions, he remembers that Prompto’s a little awkward, talks a lot, and enjoys taking pictures. Not exactly the posterchild for the Guard, but hey, who is he to judge? Besides, if Prompto happens to help him bring up his PT scores, he’s not about to complain.

“Good morning!” a cheerful voice says, interjecting into Gladio’s scattered thoughts. Gladio’s head jerks up to where Prompto is standing a few feet away, smiling like he just hit the jackpot.

 _What the hell is so good about it?_ Gladio wants to say, but doesn’t. Instead, he opts for a nod and a subdued ‘hey’ before getting to his feet.

“Long time no see. Didn’t think you were serious about joining the Guard.” It’s meant to be conversational, but he realizes belatedly that it’s sort of a dick thing to say.

_Whoops._

“Oh, yeah! Totally serious—here I am!” Prompto ducks his head and chuckles nervously, smile turning into a sheepish grin, and Gladio blinks as a blush spreads across the young man’s face, making the blond’s freckles darken and stand out like a sea of pigmented stars.

“Good for you,” Gladio comments, trying to make up for the awkward start. He clears his throat, looking around the mostly empty park, which is just now coming to life as the sun peeks through the trees. “So, running isn’t really my thing, but Captain Ursa said you’re pretty good at it, so…” Gladio gives Prompto a sidelong glance, a little skeptical.

_Hard to believe this kid is the fastest new recruit in his class._

“Whaaat?” Prompto is laughing again, and Gladio isn’t sure if he’s genuinely that cheerful, or just trying to be friendly. “Dude, I’ve heard you’re good at pretty much everything. I should be asking _you_ for help. I mean, look at these guns.”

Prompto flexes his arms, laid bare due to the cutoff shirt he is wearing, and Gladio can’t help but laugh, placing his hands on his hips as he surveys the blond’s muscles.

“You got some tone there—” Gladio begins to say, only to have Prompto roll his eyes.

“Thanks, but you don’t have to be nice. They’re puny. You could probably break me in half with one pinky finger.”

This time, Gladio’s laugh is louder and more natural as he shakes his head.

“Nah, that’s my dad,” he says smoothly.

Prompto is practically bouncing in place as he snickers, disheveled hair flopping as he shifts from one foot to the other. “Oh man, I’ve heard stories. He seems like such a cool dude—anyway, guess we should get going, huh? Those three miles aren’t gonna run themselves.” Gladio grimaces then, remembering the reason why he’s there. _Ugh, running._

“Sure thing.”

Which is how Gladio ends up following Prompto at a steady jog—the blond’s ‘warm up pace,’ he later learns. They do one lap around the park before Prompto leads Gladio through a series of stretches, which is when Gladio realizes that the kid _does_ in fact know what he’s talking about (when it comes to running, at least). When their muscles are loose and they have a sheen of sweat on their foreheads, the _real_ work out begins, Prompto breaking into a run. But even as Gladio’s heart rate and breathing quickens, Prompto’s conversation never slows.

 _How the hell does he do that?_ Gladio wonders, struggling to talk a mere five minutes in. _Is he even trying right now?_

“—so yeah, that’s how me and Noct became friends! Wild, I know. Dude, sorry if I’m talking a lot, I don’t usually get the chance to run with anyone,” Prompto is apologizing, frowning at Gladio’s sudden silence.

“No—problem. Talk—away.” Gladio struggles not to gasp between words, and then is stunned to see Prompto actually _speed up_.

“Cool! Well, if you don’t mind. Usually I just have to keep all my thoughts to myself or talk to Noct, and I’m sure Noct is getting tired of hearing them. And it’s nice to have another Guard I can talk to. Oh! And is it true you’re getting the Shield tattoo? That’s _so_ awesome—”

Gladio is nodding, dizzy from trying to keep up, both physically and mentally. By the time the three miles are done, his lungs and legs are both burning from exertion, and he barely manages to keep from toppling over when they come to a stop.

“Man, that was great! Thanks so much,” Prompto is gushing, patting Gladio on the shoulder like the older boy did him a huge favor.

Gladio forces a thin smile and attempts to look like he doesn’t feel like he’s dying.

“Sure, anytime,” he says, voice raspy.

He isn’t prepared for the way Prompto’s eyes light up in exhilaration.

“ _For real?_ How about Thursday morning then?”

“Uh…” Gladio gapes, realizing his mistake, but nods despite the pressing urge to decline the offer.

Surely, two days will be enough time to recover from the seemingly all-out sprint he performed for the last twenty minutes...right?

“Great! I’ll text you—I mean, if that’s cool?” Another nod from Gladio makes Prompto wave, then dart off at top speed.

“Wait—where are you going now?” Gladio can’t help but ask, stunned by the burst of energy that he is now certain is inhuman. Prompto stops, running in place as he looks over one shoulder.

“Oh! Mondays are my ten-mile days, so I’m about to go finish my workout. _Right_ —I forgot to mention—you probably already know and all, but don’t forget to stretch. Thanks for the warmup, Gladio!”

Grinning blissfully, Prompto turns and resumes his activity, disappearing down the stone path that winds through the park and leaving Gladio in the dust, the remaining Guard gaping in disbelief.

“…you’ve got to be shitting me,” he groans, hanging his head.

_Looks like I’ve got a long way to go._

* * *

Gladio is still sore two days later, muscles in his legs that he didn’t even know he had aching and making themselves painfully known. He stretched like Prompto instructed, but it doesn’t seem to have done much good, and he’s lying in bed seriously considering bailing on his Thursday morning training appointment when his phone buzzes. He glances down from the book he is reading, scanning the text from Prompto.

**_[Prompto 09:45 PM]:_ ** _SO stoked for tomorrow big guy! Meet at the steps of the Citadel??_

The Guard picks up his cell phone, debating.

 _It’s only been one day,_ he thinks. _And nothing worthwhile is ever easy._

He’s not one to quit, especially on a challenge, and at least Prompto makes the time go by faster than if he was running on his own.

He types out his response and sends it.

_**[Gladio 09:47 PM]:** Sure. Seven o’ clock? _

Prompto replies before he has time to put his phone down.

_**[Prompto 09:47 PM]:** Yes sir! _ _😊_

And although Gladio sighs a little as he sets his phone and book aside to prepare for bed, he turns off the lamp on his side table off with a smile.

* * *

_I hate this—I hate this—I hate this_ , Gladio thinks as he bounds up the steps of the Citadel for what seems like the millionth time.

Gladio keeps his eyes trained on Prompto’s back as he fights to even out his ragged breaths. The blond is almost to the top of the stairs and will undoubtedly turn to go back down without stopping— _like a psycho_.

“You can’t _just_ run if you want to get better. You have to do hill work and speed work, too,” Prompto had said during their warm-up. “So today I’m gonna put you through one of my favorite hill sessions.”

 _Favorite_ , Gladio thinks as he pauses at the landing, hands on his knees. Prompto is zooming back towards the ground, practically flying as he takes multiple steps at a time.

“Woohoo!” Prompto lets loose a jubilant cry as he reaches the bottom, then looks up to where Gladio is still bent over, gasping for air.

“Everything alright, big guy?”

The concern in Prompto’s face is downright hilarious to Gladio—but more in the ‘you’ve got to be kidding me’ sense and less in the ‘ha-ha’ sense. Prompto begins to jog back up the steps towards his partner, and Gladio straightens, placing hands on his head.

 _Yeah, just dying, but I’m great. How are you_ still _smiling?_

“I’m good. You’re kicking my ass, blondie,” Gladio admits.

“ _Oh_! Oh man, I’m sorry, I can turn it down a notch if you want—” Prompto’s hands flail as if to grab for some invisible lifeline in front of him, flustered. “—I know that you’re trying to get fast quick, so I just thought—but I can _definitely_ take it easier on you—”

Gladio can’t help himself. He laughs loudly, the booming sound cutting through Prompto’s words and silencing them.

“No, it’s fine. I need it. Just didn’t think _you_ of all people would be the one to do me in. Have you always been like this?” He can feel his breaths slowly evening back out, and he starts to walk down the steps with Prompto at his side, watching as the shorter Guard’s head tilts in confusion.

“Always been like what?” the young man wonders.

One hand gesturing to all of Prompto, Gladio chuckles, only answering when they reach the bottom of the stairs.

“Like a moogle on drugs. You know, fast, full of energy, always has to be moving.”

 _Kinda cute_.

The last thought drifts in unexpectedly, and Gladio rubs the back of his neck, frowning. Luckily, Prompto doesn’t seem to notice.

“Uh, not exactly. I was actually really overweight as a kid. I picked up running so I could feel better about myself, and then it just kinda stuck. Now it’s one of the only things I’m good at, so.”

There’s a shrug, and Gladio takes a moment to _really_ study Prompto. His smile looks a little more nervous, an undertone of insecurity in the way he moves that Gladio didn’t pick up on before.

“I’m sure you’re good at more than running,” Gladio grunts, bending to pick up his water bottle from where he left it.

He begins to stretch idly, and Prompto joins him, an awkward silence settling between the two for the first time. Gladio searches for something to say, but he’s gotten comfortable with Prompto’s idle chatter and his brain a little slower to come up with conversation. He tries to recall the times they hung out together with Noctis— _what the hell did they talk about?_

“You like photography, right?” It’s all he can manage, but like usual, Prompto lights up, instantly enthused.

“Oh, yeah! I’m not really good at it, but I’d like to be. Mostly I just take pics of things I like—or Noct. That dude is so photogenic without even trying, it’s really unfair.”

Gladio is shaking his head, grinning in spite of himself. “Must be those royal genes, I guess. I’d like to see your pictures sometime,” he says, and is surprised to find that he’s not just being polite.

He really _is_ interested. _Huh_.

“What? Oh!” Prompto chuckles, looking unsure. “For real? Alright, I can maybe send you some of the better ones.” With a nod, Gladio sits down, the pulsing in his muscles telling him that he’s going to be hurting later, but for some reason, he’s not all that upset about it.

“Awesome. I’m looking forward to it.” Then, attempting to be casual, Gladio runs a hand through his hair, not looking directly at Prompto. “So, same time Saturday for our next run?”

When he glances over at Prompto, the Guard’s smile outshines the morning sun.

“Dude, I am _so_ down.”

* * *

Prompto makes good on his promise to send Gladio his photographs, and the first one Gladio receives later that night causes him to stop in the middle of what he is doing and do a double take. It’s a sunrise view of the Insomnian skyline, and it gives the illusion that the city is on fire. After staring at it for a few seconds (and remembering to pull his pot of noodles off the stove before they boil over), he sits down to compose a text.

_**[Gladio 08:33 PM]:** You took this picture?? It’s really freaking good_

_**[Prompto 08:34 PM]:** OMG THANKS :D _

Gladio laughs when he sees the speech bubbles that indicate that Prompto is still typing.

_**[Prompto 08:35 PM]:** I nearly peed myself taking it bc Noct warped me up to the side of the Citadel and we were just HANGING THERE with our feet dangling it was CRAZY but yeah, I think it came out cool!!! I got some other stuff I can send, let me find some of the better ones… _

It’s already relatively late when their exchange begins, and Gladio finds that his noodles, forgotten on the stove, have gone cold by the time he bids Prompto good night. He knows he has to get up early, but looking at his new phone background (a picture Prompto snapped of the Crownsguard insignia hanging above the training facility, fluttering in the wind) he thinks he wouldn’t mind talking to Prompto a little longer.

He has just set his phone on his nightstand when it vibrates and lights up again, and he grabs it quickly, thinking it might be his training partner, but it turns out to only be Noctis. Ignoring the quick flash of disappointment, Gladio sits up a little when he reads the message in its entirety.

_**[Noctis 09:50 PM]:** Yo, don’t mess around with Prompto, okay? He gets teased enough as it is and he really looks up to you._

Gladio is surprised by how quickly his anger flares, white-hot and searing. His fingers fly across the screen as he punches out a hasty reply.

_**[Gladio 09:51 PM]:** Wtf?? I’m not messing with him. He’s cool. _

He waits impatiently for Noctis’s answer.

_**[Noctis 09:54 PM]:** Good, because he likes you. Don’t hurt his feelings, alright? _

Gladio knows the prince probably means _as a friend_ , but he stares at the words for a little too long, something fluttering in his gut unexpectedly. Scoffing, he shoves his phone into his nightstand, not bothering to respond.

* * *

After a week of training with Prompto, it gets a bit easier—easier in the sense that Gladio’s muscles don’t feel like they’re going to pull apart and his lungs are about to burst, even after he stops running. Sure, it’s still difficult, but he manages to get a few words in edgewise when Prompto is talking, and his body naturally begins waking up before the sun, eager to head out the door, two signs that the training is working.

They’re entering the second week of their partnership when Prompto, breath creating small clouds in light of the morning chill, slows his pace, glancing over to Gladio with a curious expression. Gladio arches an eyebrow in response.

“What?” he asks.

“I was thinking…you know how you’re working with me on your speed and endurance for your PT? Do you think you could help _me_ get stronger?” Prompto questions, looking hopeful.

Gladio’s grin is immediate as he imagines him and Prompto working out in the Guard’s gym together.

 _That would be a sight_.

“Sure, but I won’t take it easy on you just because we’re friends,” he declares, picking up his cadence to power through a small hill.

Prompto, taking the retort in stride, smiles, half turning to face his partner. “I can handle it! No sweat! Tomorrow, maybe?”

Mentally pulling up his schedule, Gladio gives a decisive nod. “My afternoon’s pretty open tomorrow. 1400 at the gym? I’ll take you through the basics.”

Apparently experiencing a burst of energy, Prompto zooms a few steps ahead, pumping a fist into the year. “Hell yeah! Time to work on these guns.”

“Hey—stop making me laugh,” Gladio is chortling, “It’s a lot harder to run that way.” Managing to catch up to Prompto, he ruffles the blond’s hair, sending it in every direction.

Prompto finger guns at Gladio, spinning away before continuing at a steady pace. “Sorry, not sorry.”

* * *

Gladio waits in the lobby leading into the Crownsguard training facility, watching the pouring rain coming down through the windowed wall facing the Citadel. He catches sight of someone sprinting towards the doors, hood pulled up against the deluge, and although he cannot see their face, Gladio thinks he would recognize that running form anywhere.

Stepping forward, the future Shield holds the door open as Prompto dashes inside, water sliding off him as he pants, throwing the hood back.

“Whew, man! It’s really coming down!” Prompto says, slipping off his jacket and shaking his head like a dog to dispel the water clinging to his hair. Underneath his coat, he has on one of his signature tank tops, paired with shorts over his running tights. Gladio finds himself smiling as Prompto grins up at him, saying: “Alright big guy, lead the way!”

They wind through the large open room, filled wall-to-wall with free weights and various machines, and Gladio sneaks a look at Prompto, noticing his wide-eyed look. The blond is vibrating with his usual nervous energy, and Gladio looks for an open squat rack towards the back, away from prying eyes. Several Guards nod their heads or wave in greeting as Gladio passes them, and he returns the gestures casually, Prompto only half a step behind him.

“Wow, everybody knows you here,” Prompto observes in awe, head swiveling to survey the countless muscled Guards engaged in their own individual routines.

Gladio shrugs nonchalantly, setting a small amount of weight on a barbell. “I spend a lot of time here,” he admits, then turns to size up Prompto. “Not trying to be rude, but uh, how much do you weigh?”

Prompto slaps his stomach so that it makes a ‘thwap’ sound. “A solid 155 pounds.” This causes Gladio to arch one eyebrow appraisingly.

“Okay, hopefully this shouldn’t be too much. We’re gonna start with a bench press. You ever done this before?” He glances over at Prompto, who has plopped down on a bench, to see him shake his head from side to side. With a slight nod, Gladio lays down beneath the bar, spreading his feet slightly before reaching up to move it off the rack. “So, you want to keep your hands evenly spread, otherwise it will be uneven and it will tilt—” he demonstrates briefly, then continues with his explanation. “—you want to bring your hands to either side of your chest and then fully extend your elbows, like this…I think this weight should be a good warm up for you. We can increase it if it’s too easy.”

Prompto doesn’t take his eyes off of Gladio the entire time, nodding to show he is paying attention. When Gladio finally re-racks the weight, he hops up, motioning for Prompto to take his place, and the blond does so without hesitation, copying Gladio’s stance.

Going to stand over Prompto, Gladio critiques his setup with a critical gaze. Without thinking too much about it, he places his hands over the blond’s, sliding them out a little wider. “Right there,” he grunts, then catches sight of the blush that spreads across the bridge of Prompto’s nose and awkwardly steps back, slipping his hands in his hoodie pockets. “Alright, it’s all you.”

Taking a deep breath, Prompto sets his face in concentration, eyebrows furrowing as he pushes up on the bar to free it. He performs a few repetitions before his arms start to quiver, and Gladio moves forward again, hands hovering beneath the bar—just in case—but Prompto manages to do a couple more before returning the bar to its resting place.

“Not too bad,” Gladio compliments, arms folding across his chest. Prompto is grinning up at him from where he is still lying on the bench. “I can do a set and we can alternate before moving on. Sound good?”

“You’re the boss,” Prompto quips, getting to his feet as Gladio begins to add weight to the ends of the barbell. “Whoa—you can lift all of that? That’s more than I weigh,” the blond whistles, impressed.

“Mhm,” Gladio murmurs, surprised that he’s actually pleased by Prompto’s vocal amazement, choosing not to mention that it’s his ‘light weight,’ and once he finishes adjusting the load, he assumes the position on the bench and begins to lift, breathing in and out to help accommodate the strain he feels in his muscles.

After he’s done about ten reps, he reracks, then stands, beginning to strip out of his hoodie. When he removes it, now bare chested, he is surprised to find Prompto staring at him, slack jawed.

“What?” Gladio glances down at himself in confusion.

“ _Dude_ , your tat! This is the first time I’ve seen it in all its glory! You’re always running in long sleeves or t-shirts,” Prompto points out, drawing in closer as he gawks at Gladio’s chest and arms, spinning the bigger boy around to scan his back next.

Feeling heat rising in his face and noticing people turning to look from across the room, Gladio clears his throat. “Take a picture, blondie, it will last longer,” he chides off-handedly.

Jumping back, Prompto claps his hands together in excitement. “Wait, _really_? I’d love to!”

Gladio’s laugh echoes throughout the room before he slaps a hand over his face to groan. Without explanation, he hits Prompto lightly on the head, unable to keep his lips from curving up into a smirk.

“Come on, you, we’ve got more work to do.”


	2. No Pain, No Gain

They settle into a rhythm after that, one day running, the next day lifting, a cycle that carries them through the weeks leading up to the Duels. Each week gets easier—Gladio a little faster, Prompto a little stronger, and the energetic blond becomes a part of Gladio’s daily routine, as welcome as his morning coffee and as necessary as his post-workout shower, so much so that he finds himself looking forward to the random snapshots he receives throughout the day or the mirror selfies Prompto likes to send.

It’s the week of their PT exam, and Gladio is grabbing lunch before he has to head off to the sparring session he has scheduled with Noctis. _Don’t think I forgot about you,_ Gladio had jokingly said to the prince via text message. The prince had sent back a sighing face emoji, but had begrudgingly agreed to be there (probably at knifepoint, a la Ignis).

Gladio is thinking about what drills he will run the prince through and has only just taken a bite of his meal when a notification from Prompto pops up on his phone.

_**[Prompto 12:20 PM]:** DUDE, do my guns look bigger to you?! _

What follows is a picture of an actual gun (some sort of rifle—Prompto has explained the different types of firearms to Gladio countless times, but he still forgets which is which) with Prompto’s arm beside it for comparison, sent from the Guard’s shooting range, and Gladio laughs out loud in the mess hall and ignores the pointed stares he receives from those within earshot.

Smiling, Gladio replies.

_**[Gladio 12:22 PM]:** Huge. ::smirk:: Hope you have a permit for those. _

It’s starting to feel more natural to joke around with Prompto, probably because the guy is always laughing and smiling as it is. It’s true what they say—energy is contagious—and Gladio finds himself thoroughly enjoying basking in Prompto’s sunshine more and more as the days go by.

Once Gladio scarfs down the rest of his food, he takes the short walk to the Citadel from the Crownsguard headquarters, already thinking about the run he and Prompto are going on later—the last one as part of their ‘taper’ week, something that Gladio had no idea existed. _It’s to let your muscles recover before an all-out effort. Trust me, it sounds fake, but it works!_ Prompto had told him, and Gladio had accepted the welcome break without protest.

Now, as he enters the training hall to find Ignis and Noctis already waiting, Gladio clears his mind of his future plans to focus on the here and now.

“Yo,” Gladio greets as Ignis waves and Noctis nods. They’re both dressed in athletic gear, and the prince already has a wooden sparring sword in hand, although he looks less-than-pleased about it.

“I thought you’d be too busy running around with Prompto and preparing for the Duels to want to spar,” Noctis grumbles, ignoring the look Ignis gives him that is clearly a reprimand.

Gladio grins, summoning a practice blade from the prince’s armiger as he shrugs out of his hoodie and sets his bag down by the door. “Never too busy for you, princess. Besides, what kind of Shield would I be if I neglected my duties?”

“Some of us know how to multi-task better than others,” Ignis chides, also pulling weapons from the armiger. He eyes Noctis with a knowing look, and Gladio tilts his head, eyebrow cocking in question, but the prince’s advisor is already turning away, daggers at the ready.

“Two on one?” Noctis eyes Ignis with a frown, twirling his sword idly as he takes on a defensive stance.

Gladio shrugs. “You could use the challenge. Learn to multi-task, like Specs said.” The prince makes a noncommittal noise even as he slides one foot out, bracing to begin.

The flurry of activity that unfolds afterwards consists of the steady ‘thwack’ of wooden blades colliding and flashes of brilliant blue light as Ignis and Gladio attack Noctis, the prince warping around the room with ease to evade their strikes.

“That the best you can do?” Noctis taunts, mere seconds before Gladio lunges forward, swinging the sword in his hand so quickly that Noctis is forced to fall backwards to avoid being pummeled in the face. “Whoa!” The prince rolls head over heels and lands smoothly in a crouch, eyes wide. “When did you get so fast, big guy?”

Gladio answers with another strike, and Noctis dodges hastily by diving to one side, straight into one of Ignis’s daggers. The prince freezes, the tip of it pressed beneath his Adam’s apple.

“Come now, Noct, that was too easy,” Ignis says with a smirk. Flopping onto his back, Noctis knocks his advisor’s wooden weapon aside with his arm, frowning in blatant disbelief.

“Yeah, well usually Gladio can’t keep up with me,” Noctis points out, glaring up at his Shield in accusation. Gladio flips him off good-naturedly, a wolfish grin spreading to occupy most of his face. “Guess all that training with Prompto is paying off, huh?” Noctis sits up, this time fixing Gladio with a suggestive look that makes him pause.

“Yes, you _have_ been quite busy,” Ignis notes, adjusting his glasses idly.

Gladio looks between the two, eyes narrowing as he tries to decipher the tone weighing down their words.

“Yeah, _and_?” His arms cross, mouth pressing into a thin line.

Noctis gets up slowly, movements suggesting he might run at any second. _Let him. I can catch his scrawny ass now_ , Gladio finds himself thinking.

“Just wondering if you’re going to be this busy _after_ the Duels too. You know, I’d kinda like my best friend back, unless you got _other_ plans for him,” the prince hints.

Ignis is quiet, hands clasped behind him, and Gladio can feel his eyebrows drawing together tightly in confusion.

“What the hell are you getting at?” Gladio demands, voice now gruff with the irritation he feels unexpectedly building.

Noctis, attempting to appear nonchalant, raises his hands in apparent surrender. “All I’m saying, is that if Prompto was a girl, I’d already think you two were dating. And Specs agrees.”

Gladio isn’t ready for how his anger is replaced by mortified disbelief, and a feeling that he isn’t used to wedges itself violently beneath his sternum, making it hard to breathe. He gapes first at the prince, then at Ignis, the whiplash of emotions rendering him speechless.

“What the…you’re kidding me, right?” His tone sounds flat in his own ears, a bead of sweat forming on his forehead that is unrelated to the short sprint around the training hall.

“Hear me out. If you two were—in _theory_ —dating, it’d be okay, really.” Noctis looks more flustered than Gladio has ever seen (which is saying something considering he’s known the prince his entire life), hands spreading in front of him as if grasping for a lifeline to cling to. “We’re not going to judge you just for—”

“Iggy?” Gladio interrupts, jaw clamping so hard that it aches, pulse thundering in his temples like he just finished a killer workout. His cheeks begin to burn when Ignis nods succinctly, a confirmation of his worst fear.

“You think I’m…” He can’t bring himself to say it, biting off the end of the sentence as a heaviness settles uncomfortably in his stomach. “ _That’s_ what this is about? Me and Prompto?” The words are like barbed wire, cutting Gladio’s throat and tongue as they spit out of his mouth, invisible wounds tearing open to expose the vulnerable part of him that he keeps locked carefully away from prying eyes. He hates how it makes him feel weak and fearful, like a child that might burst into tears after being scolded by their parents.

Neither Noctis or Ignis will meet Gladio’s gaze now as it shoots between his friends frantically, as fast and deadly as gunfire. Underneath the rage is a twinge of panic—a _truth_ that he has been burying for longer than he can remember, and now it worms its way to the surface from where it has laid dormant, roots as widespread and fatal as the Starscourge.

“Gladiolus…” Ignis opens his mouth, daring to lift his head. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, you know.” When Gladio sees pity reflected in his face, something inside him snaps.

“Fuck _both_ of you.” The snarl seems to echo through the large room as Gladio turns, squaring his shoulders as he storms out of the room, the door slamming behind him in his wake.

* * *

That night, Gladio lets Prompto’s text messages go unanswered, hoping that the blond will just think he hit the hay early. He also makes sure to ignore the calls from Noctis and Ignis, deleting their voicemails before listening to them. The following morning, he receives another text, sent five minutes after his alarm goes off. Prompto knows his routine well enough by now, and reading the hopeful message makes Gladio’s heart ache.

_**[Prompto 06:05 AM]:** Hey sleepy head! Wanna hang out today, maybe grab some lunch? I’m starting to get nervous for the Duels. Can’t believe they start tomorrow!!_

He reads it once, then twice before replying, a terrible guilt knotting in his gut as he declines the invitation.

_**[Gladio 06:06 AM]:** Sorry, already got plans. I’ll see you at the Duels though._

It’s a little white lie, and Gladio can’t understand why it makes him feel like shit. He _wants_ to hang out with Prompto, and no one is stopping him from doing so, but Noctis’s words echo in the back of his mind on an endlessly repeating loop: _if Prompto was a girl, I’d already think you two were dating._

Gladio sits down to eat breakfast, but finds he doesn’t have an appetite, and after puttering around his apartment aimlessly in search of something to do, he finds himself in his room, pulling athletic gear out of his closet. Turning off his phone and shoving it in a drawer, he gets dressed, grabs his running shoes, and heads out the door.

He lets his body lead the way, hoping that expelling some energy will quiet his mind, and soon he is flying down the sidewalks of downtown Insomnia more effortlessly than he ever imagined was possible, going faster and faster until he thinks his heart might burst in his chest.

Eventually, he ends up in Center City Park where it all began—whatever _it_ is—and breathing heavily, Gladio slumps onto a park bench and lets his head roll back, closing his eyes. But even after his respirations slow and the burning sensation in his muscles fade, all he can think of is one blond, freckle-faced Guard by the name of Prompto Argentum.

“Fuck,” Gladio whispers under his breath. Rubbing a hand across his face in dismay, Gladio sighs as he gets slowly to his feet before beginning the long jog back home.

* * *

The following day, it seems the entire city is awake before the sun. There is a palpable buzz in the air, not unlike the excitement surrounding the Winter Solstice festival, or the first warm day after a harsh winter. Kingsglaive and Crownsguard members swarm the streets outside the Citadel, filing into the joint training arena contained in its inner sanctum.

Gladio is waiting at the main gate for Prompto, an arrangement they had decided on weeks prior. As he shifts anxiously from foot to foot, scanning the crowd for a head of blond hair, he blames the butterflies in his stomach on the fact that it is the first day of the Duels, and not on the fact that he isn’t sure how he will face Prompto now that he’s been made aware of his own feelings.

“Hey—Gladio!”

He turns at the familiar voice, a forced smile already on his face as Prompto jogs up, squeezing past a group of Glaives to join him on the steps.

“Ready for this, big guy?” Prompto is bouncing with his usual energy, or maybe nervousness, and it makes the uncomfortable feeling in Gladio’s gut intensify.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.” There’s an awkward pause as their eyes meet, and Gladio fights the urge to look away. Luckily, Prompto is quick to duck his head, saving Gladio the trouble of maintaining eye contact.

“So, uh, this is my first time,” Prompto announces sheepishly, and Gladio is ashamed to say his mind goes places it probably shouldn’t. Coughing into a closed fist to hide his embarrassment, Gladio nods, eyebrows drawing together to convey concentration.

“Right. They’ll divide the Glaive and Crownsguard up. Today is the skills test so you’ll pick your weapon of choice and go through a series of graded challenges. At the end of the day they tally the total scores of each group. Tomorrow is strength, and the final day is speed and endurance. Whoever has the highest total score at the end ‘wins.’”

“Gotcha.” Prompto holds up a fist to Gladio, grinning with a confidence he didn’t have a month ago, and the butterflies in Gladio’s stomach flit away, unease dissipating. “Let’s do this.”

This time, it’s a real smile that curls up Gladio’s mouth as he bumps his fist against Prompto’s. Deciding he can figure out things with Prompto later, Gladio makes the conscience choice to focus on the task at hand: win the Duels.

“Hell yeah—let’s go.”

* * *

Gladio finishes his skills test quicker than most. One perk of being the son of the King’s Shield is that he was swinging a sword before he could walk, and years of grueling training makes him confident and assertive when it comes to his swordsmanship assessment. The Marshal is in attendance as a judge, and gives Gladio a nod of approval as he finishes. Suddenly, Gladio finds himself free for the day and the sun hasn’t even reached its peak in the sky, so he wanders the grounds of the Citadel, watching both Glaive and Guard as their training is put to the test.

He eventually arrives at the shooting range, an area he has visited a grand total of once over his past two years as a Crownsguard member—and only because it was included in a tour of the training facility. Leaning against the barrier that divides spectators and competitors, he scans the participants, arranged in neat rows as they fire at targets positioned throughout the field.

It’s easy to pick out Prompto, even if Gladio can only see the back of his head—his short stature and tuft of golden hair is atypical to Glaive and Guard alike, and once Gladio spots him he worms his way through the crowd to get a closer look. He eventually positions himself where he can glimpse Prompto’s profile, face smooth with an intensity that makes Gladio stop and stare.

Prompto inhales, holds, and exhales with the pulling of a trigger. Judging from the reactions of people around him, the kid is good—no, _better_ than good. Gladio finds himself leaning against the divider to watch carefully, captivated.

“He hasn’t missed yet,” someone murmurs.

“He looks so young though,” another comments.

A sense of pride wells up in Gladio as he listens, and he waits until Prompto sets his gun down and steps back, pulling off a set of earmuffs and handing them to an attendant as he leaves the range. Gladio is already moving to meet him at the gate, heart jumping in his chest when Prompto sees him and immediately beams.

“Oh—heya!”

“You did good,” Gladio notes, not bothering to hide his amazement.

“You were watching?” Prompto sounds pleased. They start walking towards the exit of the training grounds, and Gladio cannot deny how natural it feels to have Prompto at his side, the two falling into stride as easily as breathing.

“I got done early.”

“Well then—” Prompto jogs ahead, twirling so he and Gladio are face-to-face. “—how about a little celebration? Let’s eat!”

It could be a mistake, but Gladio doesn’t care. He readily agrees. “Yeah, I’m down.”

He lets Prompto lead the way, the blond chattering the entire time.

 _This is nice_ , Gladio thinks, ignoring the subtle gnawing in his stomach. For now, it’s enough.

* * *

“Come on, Prompto!” Gladio yells.

It’s loud enough that it can be heard on the far side of the wide-open space bustling with soldiers moving in and out of squat racks. He doesn’t care that Glaives are staring at him, snickering behind their hands. His only concern is for his training partner who is a few stations down, struggling to complete the final lift of his strength test.

Day two of the Duels started hours ago, the main building of the Citadel’s training facility never emptying of the hundreds of people crammed within its walls. The sound of weights dropping and men grunting provides the white noise in the background, and although Gladio completed his challenges over an hour ago (earning a new personal record on every one) he has made it a point to stick around and see Prompto through his.

Even from a distance, Gladio can make out the sheen of sweat on Prompto’s reddened face, hair flat as damp strands stick to his skin. He’s breathing hard, hands clinging limply to the barbell that is racked over him with a dead-eyed expression.

 _He’s hit the wall_ , Gladio realizes, and setting his jaw in determination, he pushes aside Glaive and Guard alike to make his way to where Prompto’s judge is watching him boredly. He stands next to the Crownsguard cadet, snatching the clipboard without warning.

“H-hey—” he begins to protest, only to crane his neck up to where Gladio is glaring down at him with murder in his eyes. Biting his tongue, he throws his hands up in surrender and steps back nervously. Gladio looks Prompto’s numbers over quickly.

“Let’s go, Prompto, this is what you’ve been working towards. One more.”

Prompto lifts his head a little, blinking as if coming out of a dream. “Dude, my arms are _jello_ —I think I’m done.” Tossing the clipboard back to the cadet, Gladio steps into the rack, standing so he can peer down into Prompto’s eyes.

“Listen, there were plenty of times I wanted to quit when we were running together, but you kept me going. Just gotta push through it—you can rest later,” Gladio says.

He holds eye contact, hoping to lend Prompto some of his strength, and he feels a spark ignite inside him, filling him with heat, and he has the fleeting thought that if the bar were not in the way, he could lean down and kiss Prompto with how close they are.

_Focus, Gladio._

“Okay,” Prompto finally agrees, inhaling deeply. “I’m gonna try.”

“That a boy.” Gladio grins as Prompto sets his hands like he was taught.

The blond’s arms visibly tense as he prepares to press the bar overhead, and Gladio watches with bated breath as it pulls free of its rest. Muscles quivering, Prompto pushes, mouth set in a grimace as the weights shakily make their way overhead.

“Come on, come on, just a little more!” Gladio coaxes encouragingly.

Prompto wavers for a second, and then gives a forceful exhale as his elbows fully extend. Gladio sees the bar start to come down fast, and he immediately reaches to catch it before it can collide with Prompto’s chest, helping him re-rack it.

“You did it—” Gladio is saying, but before he can finish, Prompto is hopping up to throw sweaty arms around him, head pressing into Gladio’s chest.

Surprised, Gladio stops, arms frozen at his sides. He’s acutely aware of the people who are looking at them, and he clears his throat loudly. Prompto looks up, wearing a smile too big for his face as he steps back.

“ _We_ did it! Thanks, big guy. Couldn’t have done it without you.”

“ _You_ put in the work. You just needed to believe you could,” Gladio insists, but the warmth in his chest only intensifies, making him start to sweat all over again.

“And tomorrow, it’s your turn,” Prompto says, and he takes a step, swaying suddenly. Acting on instinct, Gladio catches him, slinging an arm around the blond’s neck to keep Prompto from falling.

He looks Prompto over worriedly. “Whoa, you alright?”

“Oh, I’m good, just, uh—getting those gains sure does hurt. My legs are toast.” Gladio can’t help but laugh as he steers Prompto towards the doors, now no longer caring about the eyes that follow them.

“You need me to carry you?” Gladio jokes as he helps the blond weave through the lines of people blocking their path.

“Pfft, no way! Don’t worry, I could still outrun you,” he boasts, and Gladio is relieved to hear Prompto joking, even as the blond’s steps slow to a glacial pace.

“I have no doubt. Come on, let’s get you home. We got a big day tomorrow.”

They eventually make their way out of the Citadel training facility, but even as they step out into the open air, Gladio doesn’t remove his arm from around Prompto’s shoulder—and Prompto doesn’t shrug it away.


	3. To the Victor Goes the Spoils

When Gladio wakes up several hours before his alarm he tries to go back to sleep, but no matter how much he tosses and turns, the ball of nerves in his stomach won’t let him rest. Eventually he gets up, starting his normal morning routine earlier than usual, hoping it will at least put his mind and body at ease.

He’s sipping at his coffee when he decides to shoot out a text.

_**[Gladio 05:20 AM]:** You up?_

He grins when he sees the speech bubble appear mere seconds after hitting send.

_**[Prompto 05:21 AM ]:** Yep. I can never sleep before things like this. I get too nervous._

Setting his coffee aside, Gladio types a response.

_**[Gladio 05:23 AM]:** Me too. Wanna meet up early?_

This time, when he feels his heart flutter at Prompto’s reply, Gladio knows he cannot deny his feelings any longer.

_**[Prompto 05:24 AM]:** I’d love that. _

Several minutes later, Gladio is out the door, footsteps sure and mind made up. Gladio knows there are several things of which he is absolutely certain: one day he will serve as Noctis Lucis Caelum’s Shield, dropping your guard means you’re going to get hit, and he is falling in love with Prompto Argentum. It’s the latter that terrifies him the most, but amidst the fear of the unknown is an exhilarating feeling—an adrenaline and endorphin rush that rivals the famed runner’s high—and Gladio plans on riding it for as long as possible.

When Gladio sees Prompto standing alone on the Citadel steps, hands shoved into the pockets of his puffy jacket, that same sensation intensifies, and he fights to maintain an air of nonchalance as he approaches, lifting one hand in greeting.

“Hey.”

The sun is just beginning to peek around Insomnia’s iconic building, and its soft rays make it look like Prompto has a golden halo around his head, icy blue eyes surprisingly warm and inviting.

“Hey there, big guy. Ready to win this thing?”

“Hell yeah,” Gladio agrees readily, ignoring the frayed nerves that might lead him to answer otherwise.

“This is what we’ve been working towards, after all,” Prompto goes on, echoing the words of wisdom Gladio imparted to him during his strength test. “If I’m being honest, I’m kinda sad it’s about to be over,” he admits.

“Oh?”

The chuckle from Gladio closes the distance between them faster than his long strides, and soon they are directly in front of one another, Insomnia’s paling gray sky a strangely intimate backdrop to an otherwise mundane moment. It made Gladio feel like they were the only two people in the world, a blanket pulling them in, closer and closer.

Prompto cranes his neck so that he can look directly into Gladio’s eyes. When he smiles, it’s the only ray of light that matters.

“Well, yeah, I won’t have an excuse to hang out with you every day after the Duels.”

Gladio’s breath finds itself painfully lodged under his sternum, the world coming to an abrupt halt.

 _You could tell him now_ , he thinks, but self-doubt starts to seep in. _Don’t mess this up,_ it urges.

So, he doesn’t—and the moment passes with him looking away awkwardly.

“You’ll see me around. We’re both in the Guard,” he says, but the sentiment falls flat in Gladio’s ears.

Prompto appears unfazed, and without skipping a beat, turns on his heel, a cheerful hum escaping.

“Yeah, that’s true. Welp, we might as well do this thing, huh partner?”

 _Partner_. Gladio thinks he likes the sound of that.

“Yep. Let’s kick some ass,” he agrees.

Intentions set, the unlikely duo enter the Citadel gates side-by-side, but Gladio’s heart is floating up and away, and he’s not sure if he’ll ever get it back.

* * *

The training ground doesn’t stay quiet for long. As the sun rises higher, so does the number of people who make their way into the arena—Glaive, Guard, and spectators alike. Gladio and Prompto are quick to locate the other Guard selected for their relay race, and once they do, they find a spot in the bleachers and get comfortable.

“That’s the only good thing about getting picked for the main event,” one of their teammates who goes by the last name of Smith mutters. “Not having to run the blasted one-mile.”

Gladio tears his eyes away from a group of Glaive who are warming up, reminding him of a pack of wolves on the prowl by the way they jog in formation, and turns to address the other Guard beside him.

“How is this supposed to work?”

“It’s simple,” he begins. “Each of us will run a lap. Whichever team finishes first wins. No fancy handoffs or anything like that, we just have to decide the order.”

“Thanks, uh…” Gladio glances down at the Guard-issued uniform they are all wearing for the day, a simple black tank top and matching shorts, and finds his teammate’s name embroidered on a patch near his left shoulder. “…Wesson.” Unlike him and Prompto, who have very distinct and recognizable looks, Smith and Wesson seem like they could be brothers—both tall, lean, with matching haircuts, high and tight and _very_ boring.

Gladio doesn’t have to like the men though, he just has to work with them to win, so he nods and says nothing more, returning his attention to the track as Prompto scoots in close to him and does the same.

“You’re the fastest, Argentum. You decide our order,” Smith says as the first heat of participants in the stadium line up for their time trial.

“Me?” Prompto seems reluctant as he hums to himself, tapping a finger against his jaw in thought. “You, Wesson, Gladio, then me. That alright?” Everyone shrugs in ambivalent agreement.

If any of their team is nervous, they’re doing a good job of hiding it. Gladio himself is surprised by the way his stomach is flip flopping—he’s never cared much about the last day of the Duels, but then again, he never used to worry what anyone else thought of him either. He’s determined not to let Prompto down though, and knowing that failure is not an option sets his nerves on edge.

The morning turns to afternoon, and as the last mile run is getting set to start, an announcement comes across the loudspeakers. “First call for the relay race. Would the Glaive and Guard teams please report to the holding area for check-in. I repeat, first call for the relay race…”

“That’s us! C’mon,” Prompto says. He’s half-way out of the stands by the time the rest of them get up, and Gladio takes a deep breath before following.

 _You’ve put in the work, now it’s time to show off_ , he thinks.

Prompto checks in their team while the rest of them begin to warm up in the field inside the track’s inner circle. Gladio methodically goes through the exercises Prompto taught him; high knees, butt kicks, side shuffles—eventually Prompto joins him, and they fall into rhythm without needing to speak, working up a sweat by the time the second call comes across the PA system.

Their competition is visible on the opposite side of the field, and Gladio sizes them up out of habit. They are thin, but solidly built, and their limbs are long, movements quick and fluid. In short, they _look_ like runners, whereas the Guard’s team has a rag-tag look of being thrown together. However, Gladio knows that he made the mistake of judging Prompto by his looks when they first started running, and he hopes that the Glaive might do the same.

_We can win this._

He sets the intention to run faster than ever before when the final call is made. When they all make their way to the starting line, it seems to Gladio like he is in a dream. The noise of the crowd is muted, the two teams the only thing that matters.

“Good luck everyone,” Prompto says enthusiastically, the four of them drawing in tight to share final words of encouragement.

“Time to kick ass and take names,” Gladio adds, earning nods all around.

“We’ll show those Glaive we’re just as worthy of being in His Majesty’s service.” Smith smiles viciously, and Wesson mirrors the gleam in his eyes.

“Right! It’s go time,” Prompto agrees before putting a hand out. Gladio puts his hand over Prompto’s, joined shortly by Smith and Wesson. He looks everyone in the eye, and although he is the smallest out of the four, Prompto exudes an energy that has them all believing that victory is within reach. “Team on three!” he instructs. “One—two—three!”

“ _Team!_ ” they all echo before moving to line up, watching as Smith assumes his position on the track beside a much taller Glaive.

“We’ve got this, don’t worry,” Prompto murmurs so only Gladio can hear.

“What makes you think I’m worried?” The lie is quick, accented by Gladio’s signature smile as he glances over one shoulder, but Prompto just laughs and shakes his head.

“Alright, tough guy.”

It’s obvious from his tone that Prompto isn’t fooled, which makes Gladio wonder if he’s really that easy to read—or, maybe it’s because Prompto pays attention to Gladio in the same way Gladio does to him and knows what signs to look for. _That_ is a thought that Gladio doesn’t have time to pursue though, and as the gun goes off, he files the theory away for later, eyes trained on the two men who have now taken off at a dead sprint.

The Glaive and Guard are neck-and-neck rounding the first turn, and as Prompto begins to cheer, so does Gladio, all of them lending their voices to the steady heartbeat that is the stadium’s roar. They’re still close when they approach the final stretch, Smith only a stride behind as Wesson steps up. As soon as the racers cross the 400-meter mark, Wesson and the next Glaive are gone.

Unlike Smith’s short and aggressive steps, Wesson’s are long and fluid, and once again the knots that threatened to wring Gladio’s stomach of its contents are back with a vengeance. The race is too close to call, and he knows he’s the weakest link. Trying to calm his negative thoughts, he places his feet deliberately on the starting line as Wesson nears the second turn.

“You’re going to be great,” Prompto says with ironclad conviction, hand finding its way into Gladio’s as a show of support, as if he might be able transfer his energy and resolve by physically rubbing it off on Gladio’s skin.

“Thanks,” Gladio says when Prompto lets go.

He takes a deep breath as Prompto backs up, giving Wesson and the Glaive room to zoom between them. When they eventually do, Gladio has no time left to think, only act.

The Guard starts off strong, arms and legs pumping like a freight train with no brakes. In the straightaway, he can feel the Glaive beside him, only a half-step behind, and he fights to keep his eyes forward. It’s on the turn when he’s leaning at an angle, momentum carrying him through, that he notices the man gaining out of the corner of his eye.

Gladio can feel himself slowing despite his best efforts, legs growing heavy as if he’s running through sand, sharp stabs in his lungs with every inhale. The Glaive gets ahead at the 300-meter mark, and Gladio can vaguely hear people calling his name.

“Come on, Gladio!” 

_Hold on—just hold on a little longer!_

He drives his knees, remembering all the steps he has climbed—the miles run—the pain experienced. He swings his arms, chin to butt like he was taught.

_Don’t give up—not now._

Prompto is on the track, holding out his hand and screaming encouragement when he gets within fifty meters of the finish. Gladio pushes with all his strength, on the edge of his bodily limits. He slaps Prompto’s hand with a gasp, the only sound he is capable of making.

The Glaive has a good fifteen-meter lead thanks to Gladio, and although he feels like he might pass out if he takes another step, Gladio forces himself to lift his head and watch as Prompto runs—no, _soars_ —down the lane.

He gains ground quickly, and like always, makes it look effortless. One hundred meters passes in a flash, and Prompto is within two strides by two hundred, coming out of the first turn like a man on a mission. It’s a comical thing to see the Glaive realize Prompto is at his elbow, his face contorting in panicked rage as he attempts to pick up his pace.

By then, Gladio has regained some of his breath, and he cups his hands around his mouth. “Go, Prompto!”

It could just be his imagination, but Prompto seems to gather speed, and when he rounds the final curve, he steps in front of the Glaive, every part of his small body stretching as if reaching for the finish line. The Glaive, seeing his own defeat, struggles in vain to try and catch up.

Prompto begins to pull away, and with each rapid footfall, Gladio feels his heart racing even faster, hope rising as he cheers along with the other onlookers. The blond is closing in, limbs a blur, eyes slightly narrowed in fierce determination.

Twenty meters—ten meters—five—Prompto’s competitor is left lagging far behind, and the blond’s foot is the first to cross the finish line, the tape breaking free of where it is held taut by two attendants, trailing behind Prompto like a banner as he comes to a smooth stop, chest heaving.

Despite the all-out effort he just gave minutes ago, Gladio finds himself running alongside his other two teammates to where Prompto is now bent over, hands on knees. He beats Smith and Wesson to the Guard’s champion, and without thought, wraps Prompto in his arms and lifts, causing the blond’s feet to dangle above the earth.

“You did it!” Gladio gasps, giddy joy soothing the ache in his legs and lungs.

“ _We_ did it!” Prompto crows in agreement, hands clasping behind Gladio’s neck.

Their eyes lock—the crowd is going wild—and bolstered by the adrenaline that is still pumping through him at full force, Gladio decides to seize the moment, hands squeezing along Prompto’s hips as he brings his lips down to meet his partner’s.

There’s a gasp, an inaudible _oh shit_ reflected in Prompto’s widening eyes as they kiss, and everything comes to a grinding halt as Gladio abruptly releases Prompto in recognition of what just transpired. Unprepared for the sudden descent, Prompto ends up on the ground, grimacing as he lands on his backside with a yelp.

“ _Ow_! What gives, Gladio?”

“Sorry, I—” Gladio looks around, noticing that everyone within eyesight seems to be staring at them in disbelief. The noise is quieting, and people are whispering, heads turning.

 _This was a mistake_ , he thinks, flight-or-fight response now kicking in. Without waiting for Prompto to say anything else, Gladio turns on his heel—and runs.

It’s a testament to the intensity of his training with Prompto that he doesn’t even feel winded by the time he leaves the arena and he vaults down the Citadel steps, taking several at a time before flying down the city sidewalk, people jumping out of his way with perplexed and irritated looks. Gladio only begins to slow when he rounds a corner, but his pace remains impressive, a far cry from what he was able to do weeks before.

_How will I be able to show my face now? Prompto is sure to hate me after this—how fucking stupid could I be?_

He’s not sure where he is going, only that he wants to get as far away from the Citadel as possible, but even as he is debating which direction to head in, he hears someone calling his name.

“Gladio! Gladio, _wait_!”

To his absolute horror he spots a head of familiar blond hair bobbing between pedestrians, but the crosswalk sign is red, and there’s too much oncoming traffic to slip away, which means Gladio is effectively trapped on the street corner. Resigned, he mentally prepares himself to be chewed out by the one person whose opinion matters to him.

When Prompto finally reaches Gladio, he’s practically wheezing, a sight that Gladio isn’t accustomed to seeing.

“Jeez, you’ve gotten fast,” Prompto groans. “Guess I’m to blame for that, huh?” All Gladio can do is swallow hard, fearing whatever is coming next. “What was that back there, big guy?”

The question is very Prompto in its phrasing, and Gladio nearly laughs at how ridiculous it seems. He would have been okay with a _what the fuck, dude_ , or even a _what the hell were you thinking_ , but Prompto seems calm. In fact, he’s actually starting to _smile_ , and Gladio isn’t sure what to make of it.

 _Oh gods, he’s really pissed, isn’t he_?

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me,” Gladio says gruffly.

He’s keenly aware of the people stepping around them on the sidewalk, like a rushing river passing by a large stone in the middle of its tumultuous flow. Prompto, who never seems to stop moving, is now still, eyes locking with Gladio’s. That same surge of adrenaline from after the race shoots through Gladio’s body as he recognizes the emotion in Prompto’s gaze.

“Just, uh, a victory kiss then? Nothing more?” Prompto asks, cautiously hopeful, tone dipping to nearly a whisper towards the end—not that he needs to be quiet; no one is paying them any attention.

Gladio opens his mouth, then closes it. He’s at a loss for words. Despite all the training and hours spent together, nothing could have prepared him for this moment. In his mind, it’s not something that should have ever happened in the first place. All he can do is stare down at Prompto, indecision and fear making him freeze.

The longer the silence stretches, the more Prompto starts to fidget, and Gladio knows the window of opportunity is rapidly closing. He tries to summon the courage he felt when they won their race, that sensation of euphoria—of invincibility.

“Alright, well, um, see you around…I guess?” Prompto’s eyes are averted now, an embarrassed blush coloring the Guard’s fair-freckled skin. Prompto’s turning to go, to flee, just as he did, and Gladio has the gut-wrenching realization that if he lets Prompto leave, he will never get this moment back.

Just training partners, barely even friends, and _never_ lovers, doomed to the awkward wave and forced smile of acknowledgement when passing each other in and around the Citadel. Gladio knows in his heart that it wouldn’t be the same, and Prompto’s smile wouldn’t reflect the sunshine any longer—not for him, anyway.

It’s too much for Gladio’s brain to process, and even though he is terrified like he has never been in his entire life, he allows his body to take over. It’s a body that is used to having Prompto by its side in perfect cadence, and it knows what Gladio needs.

Gladio isn’t surprised when his strong hands grip Prompto by the shoulders to pull him back. Isn’t surprised when his arms encircle Prompto, lifting the blond with ease for the second time that day. Prompto’s legs kick briefly in alarm, eyes widening again like they did in the arena, but Gladio doesn’t let go of his waist, holding him so they are chest to chest.

There is a second where neither Gladio nor Prompto breathes. Their lips come together, slower and surer than ever, and time stops and watches, even as the bustle of the city continues on either side of them.

Gladio doesn’t set Prompto down, even when they pull apart, foreheads coming to touch. They’re both grinning this time, a heaviness lifting from Gladio’s shoulders that he didn’t even realize he was carrying.

“Does this mean you’ll still run with me now that the Duels are over?” Prompto wonders, arms now comfortably resting around Gladio’s neck.

Gladio throws back his head and laughs. “ _That’s_ what you’re worried about right now?” The blond has the circumspection to look sheepish, and Gladio sets him down slowly, a ridiculously pleased smile still plastered on his face. “Yeah, I’ll still run with you,” Gladio chuckles.

“Cool,” Prompto murmurs, happiness evident in the way he bumps his body against Gladio’s. “Race you back to the Citadel?”

Gladio grunts, looping his arm around Prompto’s waist and sucking him in close in response. “Nope, I’m done running for the day,” he declares. “But—” his fingers curl into the fabric of Prompto’s shirt. “—I’ll walk with you.”

There is a lull in conversation as they begin making their way down the sidewalk, Gladio switching his hand position so that his forearm rests along Prompto’s shoulders. It feels _right_ in a way that Gladio can’t explain, but he hopes to hold onto it for as long as possible.

“Noctis and Ignis are going to give me hell,” Gladio finally says, a little guiltily. Prompto laughs knowingly, glancing up at Gladio with a smirk that oozes confidence.

“Most likely—but I think we could take ‘em.”

Gladio’s resulting laugh is low, and it vibrates through his chest and across Prompto’s ribcage.

“Yeah,” Gladio agrees, a calm coming over him unlike any he has ever known.

_You and me—against the world._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you @artofalassa for being my inspiration for this fic--and for your patience in waiting for me to finish it. <3

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Twitter (@HardNoctLife) and tumblr (hard-noct-life). I respond to all comments!


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